The Vault of Souls
by Argetlam Grogins
Summary: A sequal to 'Brisingr'. Eragon and Arya search for the Vault of Souls, Murtagh struggles against his 'true-name' bindings whilst Roran and the Varden advance ever closer to Uru'baen.
1. An Elven Lifetime

**Chapter One: An Elven Lifetime**

To the brightest, cheeriest and most optimistic of eyes, Feinster was a mess. Eragon's own orbs, noticeably dulled from fatigue, drank in the vile scene once more, and not for the first time, wondered when the war might shift beyond petty cities and their manipulated populations, to the gates of Uru'baen.

Whilst most of the houses and important buildings remained standing, they were blighted by shattered windows, caved-in walls, and the dry stench of blood steaming in the unrestrained sun.

The Vardens soldiers had done their utmost to repair all they could and to clear the dead, but despite their best efforts the chilling wail of women, having sifted through rubble, to find an arm or full corpse wedged into the debris, remained alarmingly frequent and increasingly poignant.

With a soft intake of breath, Eragon turned his head and made for the Varden's main camp, some half mile from the cities battered walls.

_Still mourning?_ Saphira's voice leapt unbidden into the riders mind, and he allowed a quick-sad smile to grace his maturing visage.

_Its not like I have no reason to, _he countered, _first the slaughter at Feinster, then the shade Varaug… now Oromis and Glaedr… if the Vardens fate were not resting on our shoulders, I'd mourn several lifetimes and feel no better._

_Human lifetimes, or elven? _She replied, with a hint of mischief, and his smile grew slightly as the campsite crept into view.

_Is there even such a thing as an elven lifetime?_

_

* * *

_

The air tasted of warm sweat, rusted armour, healing wounds and roasting cow, as Eragon entered the camp, to appreciative greetings. He made straight for his tent, past the mess hall (a simple field), where he knew Saphira was waiting.

"Eragon", like a bell, the voice reverberated in his brain as he turned towards the elven maiden.

"Greetings Arya" he paused as their eyes met, conveying their shared torment of the recent deaths. "How is your neck?"

"Tis healed, fully" she replied "Though I fear we both suffer a wound far graver than a mere Shade might inflict" and she moved another five paces, closing the gap between them "Have you managed to awaken… the Eldunari?" she whispered, casting furtive glances at the near-by tents.

"No, Saphira and I have tried, but we…" Eragon trailed off, unable to convey the sheer despair he and Saphira had been smothered by when they attempted to comfort the golden dragon.

"I understand" Arya stated softly, placing a smoothly firm hand on Eragon's shoulder, "To loose ones own soul-mate…" They stood together a few minutes, allowing a brief moment of mutual comfort before returning to the savage realities of a nation at war.

* * *

The sadness that plagued Eragon, after every battle and each regretful kill, was one he both despised, and revered. When he thought of Roran, Nasuada, Orik and even Arya, he was aware of the necessary detachment they displayed throughout battle and ruthlessness with which they slaughtered their foes, or led friends to their deaths. At times he felt he would do anything to obtain some scrap of that hardness, but then he also had some small pride at his own moral bearings, and the distance it placed between him and the fell king.

Despite his unusual stance on warfare, whether it be a burden or a gift, Eragon was sure of his own abilities, both physical and mental, against all but Galbatorix himself. With Saphira, and now Brisinger at his side he felt stronger than he ever had before, and confident in his ability to make the right decisions, both for the sake of the Varden and his own conscience. However in order to complete the task with which he was entrusted Eragon was sure of the need to reach even greater heights, and he still felt a nagging emptiness, like he was missing out on his full potential. Indeed, to stand any chance against Galbatorix he knew that his power had to grow, significantly.

To speak his name to the Vault of Souls… Presumably that meant that he would have to learn his true name. Assuming he could locate the vault in the first place… And then the Eldunari, to locate and free them would be a daunting task in itself…

_Carry on thinking in this way, Little One, and we shall drown in tactical and philosophical musings, whilst the world around us grows gradually more damnable_, Saphira's voice brushed aside his thoughts with warming affection.

_I am sorry my dragon_, he replied, _perhaps an evening glide around the Vardens camp might prove more worthwhile?_

_More enjoyable, at least _she tenderly responded.

* * *

Enjoyable, in the context of flying, is a multi-layered word.

Eragon felt the familiar stomach-lurch as Saphira dipped up and down with unnatural agility, causing him to bounce ferociously in his saddle, whilst his mouth hung open in a joyous scream.

Small lakes and little villages flickered by, as dragon and rider soared between Feinster and the Jiet River. The sun melted beneath the horizon like smouldering candle wax, and clouds could only half obscure the vermillion and claret echoes that stained the sky around it, like the beautiful tapestries Eragon had seen tapered to the walls in Jeod's house, or the infinite warmth of the rugs sprawled upon the floor of the old tavern, back at Carvahall.

As Saphira began to spiral back towards the camp, Eragon could make out the seemingly endless sea to the West that tossed and turned with fury greater than any on Alagaesia. He felt a pang and a strange relief as they came to land, the imprint of the vast ocean still fresh, like footprints in the sand, upon his exhausted mind.

* * *

**Mid-****Morning**

BANG

The thump of Orrin's fist upon the oak table startled Eragon out of his dozing state, and he quickly rubbed the dust from his eyes before glancing up at the bickering council.

The subject of debate was, he could vaguely make out, the funeral of Oromis and Glaedr, and whether or not any of the Varden should be given leave to attend. The old Surdan king was vehemently against the idea, and, Eragon had to concede, justifiably so. To loose any of the twelve elven guardians, Arya, himself and Saphira, or any other Varden who might wish to pay their respects at such a crucial stage in the campaign, would severely weaken the Vardens chances of taking Belatona without a lengthy and avoidable siege.

"I fully… appreciate the importance of both the felled rider, and his dragon. To disregard their training of Eragon and defiance of Galbatorix would be madness, however t'would be far greater a folly to risk our last remaining hope, and indeed any of his guardians, when our march to Belatona is scheduled not two days from now" the king rambled, and Eragon felt his eyelids begin to droop once again, until Arya's voice cut through his senses, ensnaring the respect and attention of each person present.

"Would it not be considered folly, then, to ignore a correspondence with the elves?"

The good king raised his eyebrows a fraction, "Tis regrettable, indeed, however Islanzadi has the means with which to scry us and converse via magic at any time. Would you not agree, my lady Nasuada?"

"Eragon…" the dark skinned leader began, "I understand your desire to pay your respects to Oromis and Glaedr, I understand you're longing to meet with the Ellsemera elves again, and, Arya, I am fully aware of the importance of maintaining our fragile truce with the elven kind. You shall go to Gil'ead, say your final farewells, and do your utmost to re-stoke that flame of passion for which the elven are renowned upon the battlefield. For I believe the passing of two such elders as Oromis and Glaedr may have adverse repercussions on moral… you know as well as I do, that many of their kind believe that you should have been fighting by the side of the elders, when Galbatorix struck his fell blow." Nasuada paused for breath and glanced round the table, her gaze lingering on King Orrin, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

"So be it" the old man sighed "I see the knowledge in your words Nasuada, and so long as Eragon is able to return immediately after the funeral, I see no irreparable harm."

Eragon shifted, and spoke up at last "On Saphira, I can reach Gil'ead in three to four days… returning immediately after the funeral I should be back in eight"

"We move for Belatona in two days" commanded Nasuada "with our wounded and supplies we should make the camp outside the gates in five days, so seven days in total. On the eighth day we begin the siege of Belatona, provided they wish to repel our advances, as Lady Lorna did."

"Then, my liege, we shall fly to Belatona after the funeral, to assist in the siege."

"Aye, Eragon, but I would not have you travel alone. Galbatorix will have patrols across all the important planes and perhaps even magical traps…"

"And yet you could not send all twelve guardians with him," stated Arya, calmly "In order to make it back in good time, Saphira should only be burdened with one extra passenger. Therefore, as Islanzadi's ambassador, I propose that I guard Eragon for the trips duration."

Arya's speech was met with a thoughtful silence, before Nasuada spoke up again "You have my blessing, then, Arya, and you, Eragon to attend the elder's funeral, and to shore up our allegiance with the elves. However I would make one last demand… that you fly West of Leona Lake and North along the southern reaches of the Spine till you reach Woadark Lake, in order that you avoid Dras-Leona and Uru'baen."

The finality in Nasuada's voice was clear to all, and as one the Varden's war council rose to make their preparations.

* * *

"Another adventure?" Roran's voice seemed to have deepened since Feinster, and when combined with his huge shoulders and dishevelled stubble, Eragon could not help but wonder at the transformation his cousin had undergone.

_Somewhat rich, considering you now resemble a half-elf yourself_, Saphira cut in sarcastically.

"Aye brother, we leave for Gil'ead on the hour, provided Arya is ready." They locked eyes and grinned; the haughty elf was never late.

"But you'll return for Belatona? It wouldn't do to be absent, if, say, Murtagh and Thorn attacked, and rumour has it Galbatorix has issued a new commander… of the not quite human kind." Eragon could feel the unease in his voice, for he too had heard word that the dread king had summoned another abomination to serve at his side. The general consensus was that it was a Shade, a direct replacement for the late Durza.

"Of course I shall" he covered his anxiety with a smile "what would Garrow say, if I were to let you have all the fun?"

The cousins clasped each others wrists and hugged briefly as Arya paced deliberately across the lawn towards them. Having ensured he had his sword, scrolls, armour, a thin blanket and Glaedr's Eldunari, Eragon helped her onto Saphira and climbed the scales himself, nodding farewell to Blodhgarm and the eleven other elves. Having reached its peak, the sun was beginning a slow descent, settling beneath the stilled sea as Saphira took off in a rush of wind. The sudden salty tang in the air was welcome relief from days on the ruined battlefield, and little crystals seemed to form on his chafed lips, dissolving quickly onto the roughened tongue.


	2. Half the Kings Men

**Chapter Two: Half the Kings Men**

The dragon and her passengers soared above the mountains, like a thrush over ant hills. When Eragon had traversed the rocky terrain in his youth, each peak had seemed infinitely high and mighty, though now, having seen Farthen Dur and the great Beors, their brilliance was diminished somewhat. Because of their incredible height and the limited light, it was impossible for Eragon or Arya to detect any form of life along the rugged cliff-faces, and Eragon felt a pang as he remembered the way in which he used to stalk deer for days, waiting for that opportune moment to strike. Indeed it had been on one such hunt that he had first uncovered Saphira's egg.

_We should rest, Saphira__. _Eragon stated calmly, as the light increased with dawn.

_Aye, little one, __I shall find a place to camp. _She replied, exhaustion seeping out of her consciousness and mingling with his own.

* * *

In the relative solitude of the Spine they agreed to allow a fire, and Eragon loped happily through the forestry, locating the driest woods that would avoid smoking over-much. They had made good progress, flying throughout the first night, and had camped along a spacious ridge east of Kuasta that seemed entirely void of intelligent life.

Humming gently to himself, Eragon allowed himself to breathe in the air of his childhood and temporarily forget the troubled times in which he had somehow found himself. Despite all the many changes, the Spine had managed to retain its air of mystery, even when he had seen its vast acres stretched out from above, and he revelled in thoughts that Galbatorix and his peons would never be able to catch him there, recalling Brom's old stories of how half the kings great army had disappeared, never to be found.

* * *

Arya paced the edge of the ridge carefully, reaching to pick out berries and sprigs that would suffice for the night's meal. She wondered at her own instincts; to have sent the dragon egg so far away and to such a secluded and haunted region of Alagaesia. Despite all her elven wiles, she was unable to feel anything familiar in the crowded forestry, and the distance between the plant life and herself was disturbing beyond measure.

Returning to the camp she sank down into a large, homely log that Eragon had dragged from the border of the forest and looked into his contented brown eyes, whilst grinding hamonberry with carrow stems.

Eragon, she had to confess, had grown into something of an enigma. He had lost the farm boy ignorance and childish immaturity, with which he used to stare when he thought her unaware, but with his increased maturity he had retained a boyish humour and that cunning that only humans seemed to have.

He was taller, now, than the average seventeen year old, and his shoulders had become lean with toned muscles than ran the length of his back. The dragons blessing had bestowed him with a slimmer, rapier like stature that belied his inhuman strength, and his slightly pointed ears moulded into a warm and kindly, if slightly confused face, the cheek bones prominent, in the elven fashion.

She was, however, more aware of his recent change in demeanour when around those who made him nervous, as she unquestionably did. Instead of flushing and choking on his words Eragon seemed to have mellowed around her, treating her with respect and dignity whilst probing gently in the way that she would only allow of a friend.

His eyes flickered from the now-burning fire and met with hers, and his lips split into a contented smile, as she settled further into the log, and passed him wild berries and shoots.

"We should make the funeral by the end of the third night" Arya dispelled the warm silence with her carefully chosen words, as she watched Eragon glance over from where he was sitting.

"Aye…" he replied, savouring the cautious gentleness in her voice, "Arya… the Spine makes you uneasy?" he questioned hesitantly.

Arya lifted herself slightly and looked straight at him; "This place is dangerous Eragon… not immediately threatening, but powerful, in a suppressed, chained way. The birds here are friendly, but they are free to come and go on their feathered wings, the other life, the constant inhabitants are… wary, of strangers, of each other. Even of themselves." She paused under Eragon's understanding gaze.

"I told you about Sloan, Katrina's father?"

"Yes"

"When you first sent the egg, to me, I dismissed it as a pretty trinket. It burst into being not ten yards from me, as I hunted for Garrow… we needed the food, you see, to prepare for the heavy winter." He paused; Arya was looking at him intently. "The game escaped, so I brought the egg back to Carvahall instead. I tried to trade it with Sloan, he was a butcher then, but he'd have none of it. His wife you see, she… she disappeared in the Spine the year I was first brought to Carvahall. What I'm saying is, this place has always haunted the people, has always been a mystery. Strange things are renowned for happening here, for changing… everything." Eragon's eyes glistened slightly "But there is no evil here, no evil at all." He concluded firmly, brushing his eyelids quickly.

Arya lifted herself and crawled to where Eragon leaned against Saphira's soft underbelly, slotting in beside him.

"I shall trust you, Eragon" she whispered briefly, before closing her delicately lidded eyes.

* * *

With sunset Saphira sent a wave of thoughts flashing into Eragon's skull, causing him to jump up, eyes wide open.

_Time to go, unless you plan to mourn the old ones with sleepy snores, and mutterings of Arya's name?_

Eragon blushed slightly and glared at the oceanic eye, crinkled in amusement. He turned his stiff neck as Arya thrust him his large pack and they set about concealing the fire manually, so as to avoid using unnecessary magic that might alert nearby patrols to their presence.

Clambering onto Saphira's back beside the regal elf, he gazed up at the sliver of moon, casting its pale eerie light over the thick tree tops and snowy peaks.

* * *

**NB:- As I probably should have mentioned in the first chapter, Christopher Paolini owns all of the characters he created, as well as the world (Alagaesia anyway). Extra characters are owned by me. **

**Thanks to everyone who is reading this FF, if you continue to do so, I would be honoured, and thanks even more to those who have left reviews.**


	3. The Liquid Brooch

**Chapter three: The Liquid Brooch**

They were three days into the Belatona march, and Roran felt an overwhelming tiredness as obstacle after obstacle seemed to be thrown into the Varden's path.

Leaving Feinster, hours after Eragon himself had departed, had not been easy. Despite their victory and efforts to clear the mess, the cities people still bore a pulsing, unhealthy mistrust of the Varden, and, in the pit of his heart, Roran understood why.

Of course, taking the city had been necessary. Without it, the Varden would have been open to an Empire attack from both sides, and another city under control meant more supplies for them, and less for Uru'baen. However the siege had left a bitter taste in Roran's mouth, and, he believed, the mouths of most of his men. Feinster was the enemy, and the enemy had to be crushed by any means necessary, for the greater good, but sometimes that old soldier's argument didn't seem enough justification to him.

Still, they had done the best they could. They had left the city cleared of corpses and with plenty of remaining supplies, no doubt more than Galbatorix would have offered to a conquered Surdan settlement. Not all of the people bore hatred; he had seen understanding and had received accepting nods from many of the survivors, particularly when the Lady Lorna had been returned to her people, freed from Galbatorix's surprisingly lax bindings by Eragon's elven guardians.

Beyond any guilt he still felt over the city, however, was his worry over the Empire raids. Bands of soldiers bearing the dread kings banners, would assault the Varden's procession mercilessly, stealing or destroying precious supplies and cutting down as many soldiers as they could, before they themselves were vanquished, or could make good their escape.

A typical raid might consist of fifty to one hundred men, a mixture of berserkers (those who fought without pain) and general soldiers, and Roran knew that they had no intention of causing grievous harm to the Varden. Indeed, it seemed more likely to him that Galbatorix was merely intent on slowing their progress. Or perhaps it was a taunt, aimed to show the Varden the fruitlessness of their task, and the apparently limitless supply of men under the king's control.

The king's control… magic. Roran sighed as he felt frustration boil over. Without his magic Galbatorix could be smitten down in an instant, dragon or not, and yet somehow, the God's had seen fit to grant him seemingly limitless arcane powers, whilst Roran's attentions were still, painstakingly, fixed upon the art of lifting a simple, copper brown pebble.

* * *

When they had made camp on the third night, and Roran was settling on his rough mattress beside Katrina, the horns sounded.

With murmured reassurances he left the tent and sprinted towards the sound which echoed throughout the starless night, pulling a breastplate over his simple tunic and fastening his greaves as quickly as he could.

There was a mass of activity around the Eastern edge of the Varden's camp when he arrived, and Roran heard Nasuada's voice ringing out above the clamour.

"Silence Varden! And hold your positions. Captains report to me!"

As he forced his way through the throng he heard snatches of worried conversation, proclaiming treachery and bloodshed, a thousand strong force not ten miles away, and sightings of a vermillion red dragon, winging its way towards Belatona.

"My lady" he gasped as he reached the makeshift command point where the Vardens captains were assembled, glancing worriedly between one another.

"Varden, I have received worrying news." The young leader spoke out with authority. "Our scouts report the sighting of a beast in flight, fitting Thorn's appearance, making its way toward Belatona."

"So then the men speak true!?" an unsteady voice called out "and the host of Galbatorix intends to meet us at the city?"

"Pray let me finish" Nasuada replied, "The reports are unclear and unproven, however we have confirmed that an eight hundred strong contingent of Belatonan warriors, including the Earl Bela, are stationed some twelve miles from our camp."

"And they plan to engage?" Roran spoke out for the first time, turning his fierce gaze upon the rebel leader.

"We know not, but it would not do to tempt fate, therefore we shall march upon them tonight, revealing all."

As the captains spread out, ordering their soldiers into marching positions, Roran scratched his head wearily, searching the crowd for his lieutenants. The news was confusing indeed, an eight hundred strong party without walls, no matter how magically protected, could never hope to survive the night against the Varden.

* * *

A flurry of activity in which the tents were hauled down and forced back onto the packhorses followed Nasuada's orders, but then dissolved into the steady thump, thump of boots over grit, and the warbling screech of metal on metal; the sharpening of a thousand swords.

After two hours of marching the camp was reassembled with wearied sighs and the 'labourers' of the Varden returned gratefully to their sleep, whilst soldiers crammed at the fore of the tents, a steely determination in their eyes. Roran rode Snowfire down his immaculately positioned line of warriors and ground to a halt before King Orrin. Nasuada, still recovering from her wounds, was to remain at the camp with the urgals and dwarves, in case they were taken by surprise.

"My people. O'er yonder great hill, lies the Belatonan camp. We know not their reasons for leaving the fine city, and we know not whether this breeds ill or good fortune to us. The people of Belatona are renowned for their craftsmanship, and such fame stems from cunning and integrity in quantities as great, nay greater, than technique. Therefore I urge that we proceed with caution."

"Cavalry battalions Brightmane and Thunderhoof, each of three hundred men, shall ascend the hill looking o'er the camp, whilst Hawkeye and Wildcat, each of twelve hundred footmen, will traverse either side, so as to flank the enemy."

"Again, my brave soldiers, we have no immediate reason to initiate combat. After reaching the hill-top, captain Stronghammer of battalion Brightmane shall lead a team of ambassadors to camp Belatona, whence they shall demand reasons for the Earls presence so far from his castle walls. After which, we shall decide upon our course of action."

With the King's words, the massed ranks broke into segmented action like the bolts and cogs within a great, lumbering machine. Issuing a roar that was echoed by his men, Roran urged Snowfire forwards, and battalion Brightmane began its procession up the sloping banks of lush green hillside.

* * *

Roran had pictured the scene as they neared the top of the hill that overlooked the Belatonan's war camp. Upon seeing the six hundred strong lines of cavalry looming over them, and dreadful in the night air, cries of terror and despairing drum-beats would claw through the night, as their enemies raised spears with shaking hands, or else fled into the dark, from whence they had come.

The mighty roar of appreciation, then, left him baffled.

As screams of joy and salvation wormed through his skull he gripped the hammer tighter, unease lacing his tensed sinews. Such a jubilant reaction meant that the Belatonan's had allied themselves with the Varden, good tidings on the whole, but their presence so far from the city walls suggested all was not so well, in Belatona.

With four of his bravest men, he galloped towards the camps head, where a man donned in burgundy finery was waving his fist in the air.

"Earl Bela of the liquid brooch, the Varden wonders at your presence." The liquid brooch was a beautiful object said to have been crafted by an ancient elf, who had settled in the city, in generations past, and it hung proudly from the Earls neck.

"I might, then, put your mind at ease, for a time, and assure you that we come in peace, to serve your cause."

"I see you retain a wariness, which is understandable, yet you must know that my eight hundred ill prepared men stand little chance against the Varden's might. I would propose the good lady Nasuada allows her encampment to reside here, beside ours, for a time, whilst we discuss recent… happenings."

Earl Bela looked to be in his fifties, a round man with a small square head and sunken bloodshot eyes. His voice was slick with practiced diplomacy, and though Roran could not claim to like the man, he spoke sense.

"I shall relay your message to my superior," Roran replied, glancing at Orrins position at the head of battalion Thunderhoof, "I trust your men shall be unarmed, and will allow us safe passage on our return?"

"I can assure you it will be so."

And in a rush of dust, the five ambassadors turned and galloped back up the arduous hill.

* * *

**A Day Later**

As he tore strips of stringy meat from a glistening chicken leg, Roran relayed the day's events through his head, concluding with the council in which Earl Bela had spat out his bitter tale.

Upon hearing of Lady Lorna's betrayal by her closest advisors and the success with which Galbatorix's bindings had been removed from her, Bela had been filled with hope, and unease. On the one hand, he saw escape from a tyrants rule, whilst on the other, he worried for the loyalty of his own associates. After receiving confirmation of their treachery by several independently employed spies, Bela had ordered their public execution citing high treason, but had been outwitted and imprisoned in his own domain by Salius, his former second. Despite his faults, Bela had been a popular leader due to his flawless manipulation of the Alagaesian economy and responsibility for the cities steady accumulation of wealth, and his usurping had enraged the public, leading to a large-scale jail break.

The result was, on the face of it, a good eight hundred welcome new additions to the Varden, as well as the presence of a popular and wealthy ruler. So far as he knew, the elven spell casters were working on the Earls bindings as Roran ate, and word through the grapevine was that Galbatorix, in his arrogance had, once more, done an incomplete and repairable job.

The danger was in the unknown, and Roran was forced to wonder at what state the city would be in, once they arrived. Closing his eyes he recalled the Empires careless burning of the hay barn at Carvahall, and their own destruction of Feinster. Belatona, renowned for its laid-back ambiance, would probably already be in ruins by the time they got there.

Furthermore the Earls tale, though it had satisfied the council, seemed incomplete, and some how too… perfect, to him.

With troubled thoughts Roran finished his meal and paced towards his tent, where Katrina lay waiting. Though he often found Orrin as dull as the next soldier, the king's words slipped unbidden into his skull, where they sloshed around unnervingly;

"_The people of Belatona are renowned for their craftsmanship, and such fame stems from cunning and integrity in quantities as great, nay greater, than technique"_

The moon was full and seemed to bathe the camp in its eerie light, and the twittering of skylarks filled his ears, with the raven's long, low, caw.


	4. By Any Means

**Chapter Four: By Any Means**

"Your preparations are complete?"

Murtagh's voice echoed in the still chamber. His dishevelled hair hung in loose waves about his shoulders, the colour almost as dark as the dead black stubble that caressed his cheeks. His eyes were bright with calculating intelligence but tired, and void of their usual lustre.

"They were complete before you arrived, Murtagh. I am afraid I struggle to see the value of your company, save to spread rumours throughout the enemy of your dragon's presence."

The man spoke with an impatient whine that issued from blood red lips. His build was slim but unusually tall at some six and a half feet, and his hair, in contrast to Murtagh's, was of a bright white that reached mid-way down a willowy neck.

"The Varden is an army, armies fester with rumours. If you believe they will leap to their feet and flee Belatona due to the half-hearted reports from a couple of pathetic, dull-eyed scouts, perhaps you have advanced too quickly, Salius." Murtagh replied stonily, his rough fingers curling into a tight fist.

"Now now my dear boy, unclench those mitts of yours and listen."

"The Varden are two days march from us, but with their new… acquaintances, they should make the walls three moons from now… following so far?"

Murtagh's cool nod allowed him to continue.

"My mining teams and our dear kings magicians are under the streets as we speak, working their… magic, and the remaining townsfolk are still, to my knowledge, oblivious, as are those in the company of our dear Earl Bela. Are you grasping the basics of our cunning little ploy between your stumpy fingers, or need I repeat myself?"

In an instant Murtagh swept forward, pinning the man to the stone wall.

"Understand me well, snake, or I shall rip the fangs from your disgusting jaws. Whatever our good king's wishes, underhand tactics don't sit well in my mind. You will ensure that everything goes according to plan, or I will take matters into my own hands and vanquish our foes the honourable way. The only reason Galbatorix is allowing this scheme of yours to be tested, is because he cherishes the dramatic almost as much as you're snivelling self." He stepped back.

"One more thing. Galbatorix may have seen fit to… empower you. But know this; a rider who looses his dragon is nothing, a rider who never even had a dragon is less than nothing, is a thing that should not be, an abomination of nature. By all means work your petty magic's, and exercise your new-found power over the little people, but sword to sword with Eragon or myself, dragon or no, you'll be exactly that. Nothing."

* * *

In the earl's bed chambers, Murtagh slumped into an elaborately furnished throne. Acting as Galbatorix's right hand man was immeasurably tiring, even though the punishments had lessened in frequency since the king had 'broken' him.

And he was, essentially, broken. In order to change his true name, he had to alter his actions, but that meant defying Galbatorix's commands, something that was impossible since the king knew his present name. Even little defiance's now seemed pointless before the King's varied methods of torture, whether it was breaking each little bone in one of Thorn's huge wings, one by one, or delving ruthlessly into his own mind and all but splitting his skull from within.

But beyond that, he found it increasingly hard to deny the delicate lure that authority held over him. The world was a cruel place, governed by cruel leaders and the only way to escape such inevitability was to become the epitome of its cruelty. Why then should he, who had suffered more than almost any being alive, try to fight such a fate when it came to him like sweet release on the black feathered wings of a demon?

Still, whatever the case, he would remain under control and thus under cruelty. Galbatorix held visions of grandeur where a new legion of riders ruled the land under his sway, and so often he treated Murtagh as the finest son, the first piece of his glorious puzzle. But the cruelty always crept through. The king was mad, and far too twisted a man for his dream to ever become a reality, and so, in all but his lightest moments, Murtagh knew that no matter how much power he held, being under Galbatorix's command was the greatest cruelty alive.

"I shall do his bidding, and I shall slay his enemies. I shall enjoy it, so as not to choke on the guilty madness myself, but at the slightest loophole, the smallest opportunity of freedom, I shall cut him down. Or at least aid Eragon and his countless other enemies, by any means possible." He murmured quickly to himself.

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**NB:- A small and uneventful chapter, I know, but I had to introduce Murtagh at some stage and build on his own characterisation****, as well as outlining the essential relationship between himself and the king. **

**Thanks for reading/reviewing! **


	5. More Than Apt

**Chapter Five****: More than Apt**

**Warning: This chapter contains blood and violence, hence the 'M' rating of the fic.**

There is a point in the summer's day, when the sun appears to burn in the sky directly over its vast dominion.

So, as Eragon stood beside his weeping dragon, ethereal light shone all around, bursting from the mighty star and splintering into brilliant fragments from where it touched Glaedr's ancient golden scales. The dragon was laid in the centre of a vast field with his honourable rider beside him, all wounds healed with magic to ensure an undisturbed burial. All around his huge bulk the elves stood, void of their weapons and void of any expressions of sadness or doubt. Just that calm, unquestioning gaze, that he had seen so often upon Arya's immaculate features.

Music began slowly, a lone harp etching a web of sorrow across the flawless day, and it was joined, gradually, by flutes and a low soft wail, as all around the elven composure began to slip.

Eragon would have been alarmed at the sudden change in demeanour, were he not utterly transfixed on the two elders as they lay in the smouldering light. Merging his own despair with Saphira's he allowed himself to succumb to the absolute, agonising sorrow and joined in the darkly beautiful song, tears slipping freely down his cheekbones and nestling in a two week old beard.

It seemed like hours before Islanzadi stepped forward and severed the supports that were buried beneath the bodies with her mind. The earth seemed to quiver, and then gradually collapsed all around, and the ancient dragon and his rider were claimed by the earth, the vast dust cloud still punctuated by light, reflected by the disappearing scales.

Eragon approached Arya cautiously after the funeral, unsure as to how long it would take before the elves fully regained their composure.

"We are lucky" he whispered "to ever have trained, with one so mighty." His speech was jarred and unfamiliar, his tongue broken by the communal anguish.

"What should we ever do, without our teachers, Arya… I"

She cut him off, placing a single finger across his lips and her emerald eyes, glossed with tears, cut into every fibre of his being. Her lips twitched slightly, before she spoke.

"If Oromis could see you now, Eragon, he would wish himself a thousand times dead. He taught you everything you need to know, yet you flounder, like salmon in the jaws of a bear."

Eragon stepped back, stunned by the response, "I flounder because I'm grieving Arya, and because despite our 'completed training' Saphira and I failed yet again to kill or even capture Murtagh! I'm floundering because we must leave in four hours time to do battle at Belatona, and because I'm like to meet my brother there once more and not leave until Brisingr is wedged burning in his chest, destroying his very essence and that of the only living male dragon, besides Shruikan." He paused, panting heavily before the equally startled elf. There was something more to his words, a longing for intimacy and consolation that she recognised and that disturbed her.

"Eragon. I am truly sorry."

"But you must understand, there is no time for procrastinating, nor for grieving over what might have been. Oromis allowed you to leave because he thought you ready, and he rode to battle with the knowledge that, were harm to befall him, he had left Alagaesia with an apt protégée… More than apt."

The silence that grew between them had none of the contentment with which they had grown used to, travelling together. Eragon saw the sense in her words, but to him it was heartless sense.

"To you, to Alagaesia, I am a mere machine with which to shape the future." He spat, ignoring her earlier compliment.

**Three Hours Passed**

Eragon leaned into the scales on Saphira's underbelly and sighed. He regretted his earlier outburst, but the funeral spirit had kindled something inside of him, and he had noticed many such arguments between the normally flawless elves during the first hour after the ceremony. And yet, another part of him was proud that he had managed to stand up for himself before the ceaseless pestering that seemed to encompass his life, ever since Saphira had hatched. Perhaps he was finally moving out of the shadow of his teachers.

_We have never been forced under anyone's shadow Eragon. I would not allow it. We followed Oromis and Brom because we willed it, and we shall do so in the future when it serves us best. Still, I am glad you spoke to Arya as an equal, even if it did sound at times like an adolescent tantrum._

Eragon snorted at her bluntness and gazed up as an elf approached.

"Eragon Shadeslayer. Might you join us for a while?"

Eragon was about to decline before he remembered Nasuada's plea to rekindle the elven fighting spirit. Moving towards a cluster of twenty elves, he unsheathed Brisingr.

"Hail friends, might anyone spar with me in memory of the great elders?"

"Those elders your brother slew?" a snide voice remarked,

"Whilst you danced with the humans, a hundred miles south?" another chimed in.

"The very same, who understood my reasons, even when their pettier brothers could not." He replied, steel in his voice and a glint in his eye. "If you believe me an unworthy apprentice, perhaps you are willing to test my skill with the blade and thus, by inheritance, my masters skill, against your own?"

Two elves stepped out of the crowd and unsheathed identical one-handed blades. Another strode forward, axe in hand.

"The twins may wait their turn. My sorrow hungers for an outlet, Argetlam."

"Then your sorrow is self-centred and misdirected, brother."

"I shall engage the three of you together." Eragon held a dramatic pause, in the centre of the newly formed ring.

_Little one… I hope you know what you're doing. Our powers have grown, but three elves? Tis a doomed fight. _

_Have some faith, my dragon. The elves are too honourable for their own good. Besides, I have you to watch my back and lend me strength, right?_

After blunting their blades, the elves leapt forward as one. The first twin dummied a swipe at Eragon's head, pulling out at the last minute and allowing his brother to strike in his stead, but the rider read the move flawlessly, side-stepping and cutting in an upward arc that knocked the blade sideways in a flash of sparks.

Eragon followed through, smashing his hilt into the elf's unbalanced ribs and spiralling away with flawless grace as the axe-man reached them. His blade moved with uncanny speed, but was easy enough for the rider to avoid.

The twins were young by elven standards, and their technique was hindered by a reckless enthusiasm. They leapt from foot to foot like boxers, tiring themselves unnecessarily whilst Eragon remained steady, knees bent and ready to spring. The axe-man came first this time, feinting towards the abdomen before slashing upwards at Eragon's chin and he blocked the attempt with both hands, muscles rippling and then buckling to the older elf's superior strength. As the twins engaged, Eragon moved quickly from side to side, repelling their needle like flurries whilst avoiding the axe-man's sweeping strokes whenever he could.

The battle continued, Saphira alerting Eragon whenever one of the elves made to strike at his back, and the rider felt his shoulders ache from the strain.

Sensing his moment Eragon ducked a lunge from the axe-man and swung his own leg into the exposed back, sending the elf sprawling into the first of the twins. Keeping his momentum he pivoted expertly and sucked in his stomach at Saphira's warning, as the second twin's blade whistled through the air.

A look of resignation graced the elf's sweat stained features as Eragon's own blade darted forward mercilessly. The other elves had barely risen as he rode a tired lunge and dragged Brisingr against the pale throat, to cheers from the eager crowd.

The elf bowed quickly and rejoined the assembly, which had grown to three times its original number. With a start Eragon noticed Islanzadi amongst them, and beside her, Arya.

_And that means you have to put on a show. _Saphira remarked smugly.

The remaining elves locked eyes, nodded and made to engage. Pre-empting the gesture however, Eragon was already upon them, and the first twin had barely raised his blade before Brisingr smashed into it, inches above his startled face. With eyes trained on the blade he was unaware as Eragon smashed a knee into his groin and he fell back with a soft moan.

_Axe at six o'clock!_

Eragon spun one-eighty and flung up Brisingr to parry the elf's blow, but again he held his ground, using an inhuman strength to push Eragon backwards, where, as Saphira duly observed, the first twin was getting shakily to his feet.

With the words of Oromis and the demonstrations of Brom pounding in his skull Eragon kicked at the axe-mans shin, and, with the brief respite of pressure, forced him backwards.

_Head shot, four o'clock_

As he felt the warning Eragon's lips twisted into a feral grin. Placing a boot on the axe-mans leg he vaulted into the air, his shin disappearing as the axe cleaved down, and somersaulted backwards. Landing directly behind the first twin he raised his blade to the exposed throat.

The final elf stepped forward and raised his axe, to cheers from the crowd and Eragon felt a twinge of surprise at the eagerness with which they had embraced the fighting atmosphere.

_Nothing like a brawl to bring men together. _

_Hypocrite. _Eragon replied, with a chuckle.

He circled his final adversary warily. The elf had not worked well with the twins, but Eragon could tell he was an accomplished individual fighter, and his strength and experience were outstanding. Furthermore, he could tell from the crowd that he was popular among even the elven warriors.

Eragon initiated hesitantly, swinging Brisingr from left to right and back again but the elf parried his blows with ease before launching a blistering counter-attack. Moving expansively, now that the twins had been vanquished, he swung his axe at an unnatural speed, using the full length of his arm to attain maximum power, and Eragon felt his bones jar as he turned away the strike and leapt out of harms way. Blunted or not, one slip and the axe would take his head off.

_He is limping, slightly,_ Saphira commented as they circled again, and Eragon saw she was right. The elf's left leg was unbalanced and moving gingerly, a result of Eragon's instinctive kick, so the rider stepped to the right and moved in for the kill, addressing the weaker left side.

_Arya just nodded with approval, _Saphira teased, and Eragon lost his concentration for a split second, as the axe whirred menacingly inches from his face. Taking advantage of the opening before the elf could recover; Eragon swung his blade upwards, towards the exposed sonar-plexus, but somehow the elf turned the blade aside with an immaculately timed swipe of his hand, eliciting roars of approval from the crowd as Eragon feinted a fall-back and then lunged forward again, his blade clashing into the axe with such ferocity that both weapons spun out of their wielders hands.

"Mano a mano" the big elf surmised with a grin, as his thick legs split into a fighting stance, fists guarding his face and torso.

_Remember Roran's battle with the Urgal?_

_It's not like he'd ever let me forget! _Eragon replied as he circled his prey.

The grace from the previous encounter was brushed aside in an instant as the elf blocked Eragon's jab and smashed a huge right fist into the riders jaw, following through with an uppercut into the exposed ribcage, which Eragon felt buckle alarmingly, as blood trickled from between his teeth.

Regaining his composure, Eragon moved in quickly, teasing the big elf with a flurry of jabs to the head before lashing out with a high right foot, which caught him in the side of the face with irresistible force, and a low stamp-kick onto the previously injured shin.

Both fighters moved back with a grimace and circled again, grudging respect enflaming their angry eyes. The elf dropped his guard and Eragon flung a right hook towards the exposed chin. His blow connected, but the elf grabbed his arm with a grin, and, before he could withdraw, threw him to the ground in a rush of wind. Pulling Eragon's arm, he forced it out straight and raised his boot for the crunch, to an intake of the crowd's breath.

With a snarl, Eragon threw up his right leg with as much force as he could muster, and he felt it connect with the required spot, judging by the elf's howling reaction. Rolling over sharply he grabbed a handful of bronze coloured hair and dragged the elf towards the ground, smashing an uppercut into the exposed face with a crack of cartilage and blood.

Eragon then leapt up smartly, grabbing Brisingr from its resting place near to where they had rolled, and placed it onto the big elf's neck with a relieved smile.

* * *

Eragon accepted the nods and smiles with a beaming grin and waves of his aching hand. Silently he thanked the God's for his decision to fortify his knuckles. With or without his elven strength, he had a suspicion that without the large calluses his punches would have done more harm to him than to his adversary.

Weaving through the dispersing throng he approached the elven queen hesitantly, remembering her frustration when he had last spoken to her of Sloan, and his recent 'disagreement' with the Menoa tree.

"Atra esterní ono thelduin." he stated carefully, completing the elven bow.

"Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr." she replied with equal caution, bright eyes scouring his face, still caked in mud, sweat and dirt. Eragon had healed his injuries, but had not yet had time to remove the marks of the recent battle.

"You're prowess has improved Eragon Shadeslayer. To defeat Illarin of the Axe is a feat in itself, but accompanied by a further two elves. Impressive indeed."

"I had the good fortune to be instructed by three of the greatest teachers Alagaesia might offer. But I am thankful for your kind words, my queen." Her eye brows rose slightly, and her lips were pursed.

"Eragon I understand your reasoning." She paused and made sure they were alone. "I understand why you fought with the Varden, instead of at Gil'ead, and I am certain Oromis would not have had it any other way. Still, my elves are displeased by your continued absence."

Eragon nodded regretfully "I fear there are too many groups in Alagaesia for me to placate them all, but I hope that my duel with Illarin may have eased some of the pressure. What actions, then, would the elves have me take from here?"

"My queen, the Varden bring a message in the royal tent." Arya strode towards them confidently. "Good news, from Belatona, I am led to believe."

They entered the royal pavilion and encircled a basin of still water, from which Nasuada peered. After exchanging respectful greetings, she told them of the earl Bela's defection to the Varden, and their progress toward the city walls.

"What's more, our scouts report that Murtagh and Thorn were seen flying near to Uru'baen. It appears that Galbatorix has abandoned the city to Salius, Bela's former second, and the remaining guard which numbers no more than four hundred!"

Eragon forced a smile, to cover his unease. "A little too easy, don't you think?"

"That's what your cousin said," she replied, "but for once the men have hope, even without you… Eragon I know you wish to advance your training, I know you feel yourself unready to face Galbatorix. I can give you another week, perhaps two, to do what you will."

"But Belatona..?"

"Eragon, if we take the city without our dragon rider, imagine the lift it will give the men! Of course you must scry us regularly, and join as soon as possible should anything go wrong. But I have a good feeling about this, for the first time in years."

He left the tent, a paradox of emotions spilling from his brain, whilst Islanzadi remained conversing with Nasuada.

"What shall we do then?" Arya.

"We?" he turned his nervous gaze onto her.

"Did you think Nasuada or the queen would let you go alone?"

"But you are the ambassador, the Varden needs you." He replied hesitantly, and mentally slapped himself for trying to dissuade her.

"They need me… but are willing to let their rider take time off?" he returned her smile and they approached Saphira together.

"Arya, I should like to apologize for my outburst earlier. You know I appreciate your judgment more than…"

"I know Eragon, elven funerals have… odd effects on those unprepared, I should have warned you."

"And this place, Gil'ead…"

"Memories?"

"Yes."

Eragon mounted Saphira and pulled Arya up after him, tactfully avoiding the subject any further.

"Eragon!" Islanzadi had left the tent and was approaching Saphira quickly.

"I see you plan on leaving us already?"

"No matter, we stay camped at Gil'ead for the next few days, before we begin the march to Uru'baen."

"Where do you plan to go?"

"I… am unsure," he confessed, "have you heard of the Rock of Kuthian?"

The elven queen paused for a moment, and then shook her head.

"The name seems familiar… but I cannot place it. I come instead to offer a note that was found, addressed to you, in Oromis' hut." She handed Eragon a dusty envelope and turned away.

"Good fortune Shadeslayer, Arya" she murmured in the ancient language, and her farewell was echoed by elves from all around as Saphira beat her wings, and launched herself into the mist-ridden air.

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